


Eyes Pinned Open

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fear, Frottage, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mutilation, OOC Sherlock, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Sketchy Psychological, Sleep Deprivation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John nearly dies one floor away from Sherlock and the consulting detective blames himself. In penance he determines to keep John safe forever, becoming so anxious that he stops sleeping for a week and has a psychotic break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Pinned Open

 

 

 

 

 

 

“John?” Sherlock called up the stairs, “Come on down here! We’ve got a case!”

 

No response. It was the third time he’d shouted for him.

“Perhaps he’s not home?” he porcine client suggested.

“Don’t be thick, of course he’s home. He came home sick from work an hour ago.”

“I’ve been here two an he wasn’t here then,” The man replied, looking as if he were having second thoughts about the mental state of his would-be temp.

“He wasn’t?” Sherlock asked, “Maybe it was yesterday. What day is today?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday the what?”

“18th.”

Sherlock froze, his expression one of alarm as he sorted through a muddle of memories that hadn’t been properly filed yet. He’d just finished a case and had been running about for days on end. In the midst of it all John had come home from the clinic sick and headed up to bed. That was on… the 15th?

“Do you need the month as well?” The man asked, looking disgusted.

“Call an ambulance,” Sherlock snapped, and then bolted up the steps to John’s room two at a time.

He burst through the door and was immediately overwhelmed by the stench. John lay still and pale in the centre of his bed, the bedclothes half off and half on. His lips were cracked with scabs over them. A glass was broken on the floor beside the bed, the water long dried. His hand rested on the nightstand just an inch from his mobile.

 

 

_He tried to call for help. The smash pattern on that glass. It was intentional. He was trying to get my attention. I was a floor away ignoring him while he died!_

 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and felt for a pulse. It was weak but present.

“Oh gods, is he dead?” The _former_ client asked.

“Did you call that ambulance?”

“No.”

“Well do it or fuck off!” Sherlock shouted.

The man fumbled his phone out while Sherlock tried to get John to open his eyes. Patting his cheek did nothing, nor did calling his name. He tried prying an eyelid open to see if he at least tracked, but it was glued shut with crust. His skin was dry and hot, but tacky with long-dried sweat. He was severely dehydrated.

“Water. Ice. Something. Get Mrs. Hudson!”

“Who?” The man asked, breaking off his instructions to the person on the telephone.

“The lady on the ground floor! Go!”

He fled and Sherlock continued trying to get John to respond while he tugged off the bedclothes and carefully removed him from his nightshirt. It was difficult with him being completely limp, but he soon had it off just as Mrs. Hudson came running into the room.

“Where’s the ice I asked you for?”

“The what?” She asked.

“The ice! I asked you to bring ice! GO GET SOME DAMN ICE!”

Mrs. Hudson let out a sob of terror and fled down the stairs, stumbling on the last ones before bursting into their own kitchen. Sherlock continued to talk to John while she rattled around and then bolted up with two ice trays. He knocked the cubes out over John’s body and pressed one to his lips.

“Come on, John. Come on.”

“Is he…?”

“Not yet. Go hail the ambulance.”

Mrs. Hudson clattered downstairs and Sherlock continued to get him to consume some fluids even though he knew it was useless. He had to do _something_. He’d never felt so hopeless in his entire life. He sat there next to John, feeling his pulse flutter weakly and wondering if he’d ever see him open his eyes again. He couldn’t remember their colour. Oh, it was _somewhere_ in his mind palace- he had a John Wing, after all- but at the moment he was too full of post-case clutter to sort it out and bring it to the surface.

Then they paramedics came in and shoved him to the side. Sherlock stood there and watched, his breath elevated, as they tried three times to get the IV into him. He watched them check his pulse, prick a finger to check his sugar, take his temperature, hook up monitors, and ask for his information.

“John? John Watson? Can you hear us? Give us a sign you’re conscious. Okay. His eyes are sealed shut and he’s unresponsive, but alive. Let’s get him to the hospital ASAP while that second half is still true. Rachel! Call it in and throw on the siren!”

They heaved him onto a gurney, strapped him in, and struggled down the stairs while Sherlock stared with eyes gone dry from trying not to blink and miss the last glimpse of his best and only friend. Sherlock stumbled downstairs and into the ambulance to ride along, ignoring them when they tried to stop him. They hadn’t tried over-hard anyway. They took John into the emergency entrance where he was given a few shots and then left to soak in the fluids while a nurse occasionally popped in. They’d put a catheter in and Sherlock anxiously watched the bag on the side of the bed to see if it would fill up. With all the fluids pumping into him it would take an hour or less on a healthy person. It took six for John to put half a cup of reddish-brown urine into the bag. It looked like what came out when they bled the pipes. Sherlock bolted into the bathroom and threw up, then panicked as he was washing up and ran back to John’s bedside to check he was still alive. The machine beeped. The bags dripped. His eyes remained closed, but mercifully clear of gunk courtesy of the nurse. His limbs hadn’t budged. He breathed and did little else. Sherlock wasn’t even convinced he was dreaming.

Mycroft’s text went off. Again. Sherlock checked it.

**How are you? M**

**They aren’t doing anything. He’s just lying there pissing rust. SH**

**I have a friend in the hospital who is keeping me appraised. I asked how YOU are. M**

**Fine. Sh**

Sherlock stuck his phone back in his pocket. Then he pulled it out and threw it against the wall. Then he sat down and rubbed at his face.

 

 

_Brilliant, Sherlock. Now you haven’t a phone. You won’t be able to leave or they won’t be able to contact you. Not that you’re leaving anyway._

 

Sherlock stood and paced, remembered he needed to conserve his energy for a proper night vigil, and sat back down again. Eventually Molly showed up and brought him food. She cleaned up the broken phone and told him she’d drop by tomorrow. Sherlock ate it, but only to make sure he had energy. It wasn’t as if he needed his brain to function, after all. He was just sitting here waiting for John to wake up. _If_ he woke up. Ever.

_What if Mycroft had information I don’t have?_

Molly came back, then. She stammered something about making sure he had everything he needed and plopped down some books from the hospital’s gift shop, a bag of snacks, and a cup of coffee.

“Two sugars, no cream. Right?”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, “Can you bring me more of this in five hours?”

“Five… five hours?”

“That’s how long it takes for caffeine to leave the average adult human male.”

“O-okay,” She nodded, “I’ll just… pop by after running a few errands.”

“Good.”

Sherlock was tapping his feet anxiously when Molly popped in again. She left him the coffee, asked if he’d rested, got him some more food despite the fact he hadn’t eaten what she’d left, and then went home for bed.

**Night One**

Sherlock managed to stay up for six hours past the end of visiting hours, but he’d already been sleep deprived from his case and was soon snoring away in a chair. When he woke up the first thing he heard was John’s monitor’s steady beep. He staggered to his feet in horror and stared down at John, guilt filling him as he tugged on his hair.

Truth be told, John looked a lot better than he’d expected him to look. He had colour in his cheeks, but a glance at his charts told Sherlock that was the fever. He was breathing easier and his pulse was normal. As Sherlock stood there and watched, his own pulse slowly calming down at the good signs in front of him, John’s tongue flickered out to wet his cracked lips and he let out a soft whimpering sound.

Horrified, Sherlock pressed the call button and then ran to the bathroom to wet a tissue. He dabbed it at John’s mouth until the nurse arrived, scowled at his attempts to give John comfort, and gave him a lecture on spreading infection that had him curled up in a chair pouting. She brought in a jar of lip balm and applied it to his lips with a q-tip. She left several more sterile applicators for him to apply them later and patted his shoulder gently, apologizing for being so harsh with him.

“I know what it’s like to want to help a loved one. Your partner is in very good hands, sir. He’s making an excellent recovery.”

Sherlock didn’t believe a word of it. He spent the next hour hating himself for falling asleep when John needed him- letting anything distract him from his ill friend _again-_ and set to deciding how he could avoid it in the future. Molly might not visit again and Mycroft was out of the area, so he bribed a nurse to sit with John while he went down to an ATM and then visited the commissary. There he perused the area until he found the drink with the highest concentration of caffeine and bought all that were available. He also purchased a few things to eat to keep up his strength. John would need him to be strong for a while.

When he returned he again berated himself. John had woken up while he was gone.

 

 

**Night Two**

 

Sherlock’s caffeine buzz was surprisingly successful. He was documenting his results on his laptop, which Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to bring to him. He watched movies, played online games, solved a few cases without going further than John’s bathroom, and played cards with his flatmate when he was awake in between bouts of heavy sleep.

“You can go home, you know,” John told him with a smile.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock scoffed, “You nearly died last time I took my eyes off of you. Do you really think I’m going to let _that_ happen?”

John laughed, which made him cough, which led to Sherlock fetching him the water pitcher and a glass, which meant he never got around to telling him he wasn’t joking. Then John slept again and Sherlock watched his fever drop without aid of medication for the first time in days.

 

 

**Night Three**

 

The blessed caffeine was failing him. He had drifted off twice. _Twice_. It was unforgivable. The second time he’d drifted off John had been awake and he’d jolted upright to find him smiling softly at Sherlock, his eyes full of warmth and love. It made his heart ache. He’d been ignoring John’s crush on him for ages, too wrapped up in the Work to deal with the tediousness of emotions, but now his heart and brain were finally in sync. Sherlock pushed himself up and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“I need some more coffee,” Sherlock sighed, straightening up and stretching.

“What?” John asked, blinking rapidly as his face flushed with what Sherlock _hoped_ wasn’t fever again.

“I’m going to bug the nurses,” Sherlock told him, “I’ll have to flirt a bit to get them to do what I ask, but it’s only superficial.”

“Um… okay. That’s…”

“I just want you to be aware that it is _not_ a sign of unfaithfulness and that I take us _very_ seriously.”

John’s jaw clicked shut and he nodded, eyes a mixture of surprised, relieved, and confused. Sherlock smiled, nodded, and stepped into the hall to smile brilliantly up at the nurse’s station. The women giggled and nudged at each other until one stepped forward. Cautious to keep John in his line of sight, Sherlock flirted and bribed her into fetching him more caffeine.

“You’ve been drinking them a lot,” The nurse noticed, “Don’t you need to sleep?”

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock chuckled, “I sleep during the day. I usually work a night job so this is completely normal for me. Not to mention it means you can spend less time on John and more on sicker patients during the far less-staffed night shift. I assure you, I’m very well rested, fed, and watered. Hell, I’m drinking half what I usually do!”

“Well… okay,” She decided, “But those things are awful for you. Before you leave I’m going to talk to your partner about taking care of _you_ , got it?”

“I tremble in fear of your tongue lashing,” Sherlock teased.

She left and he returned to John’s side to see him frowning. He dipped down to press a kiss to his cheek, “I told you. Not real. Just getting my way is all.”

“Yeah, but… okay that part aside… Sherlock, did you really sleep today?”

“Of course,” Sherlock lied, “Why do you think I’m not tired now?”

“You _are_ tired, you look ragged.”

“It’s with worry,” Sherlock replied, squeezing John’s hand, “You nearly died. I could have lost you. John, I’m _never_ taking you for granted again.”

John blushed and spluttered and then changed the subject, too awkward to deal with all Sherlock was throwing at him.

 

 

**Night Four**

 

It was so good to have John home again. It was frustrating that he was still fumbling about their relationship, though. He was tired a lot and spent most of his time eating and dozing when Sherlock wanted to take him out and wine and dine him. John finally got tired of Sherlock bouncing around him ‘like a puppy’ and told him to go run off his ADHD before John kicked him. Then he went upstairs to bed. Sherlock managed having John out of his site for a few minutes before the skull on the mantel started talking in his voice.

“Are you really going to just sit there where I go lie down in the very bed I nearly died in five days ago?”

“No, of course not, but you’re terribly upset with me and that can’t be good for you either and…”

“Will you put me on your mantel, too?”

“You _are_ on my mantel.”

“You know what I mean,” John-Skull sighed, “I mean the _real_ me. Will you use beetles to remove the flesh from my skull, or will you boil it?”

“Beetles, obviously. Boiling is both repulsive smelling and damages the shape of… _John!_ ”

Sherlock bolted up the steps, his hands shaking as he got the door open. John had climbed out of bed at his shout and they stared at each other with John’s trousers around his ankles and his cock jutting out in front of him.

“Sherlock, what the _fuck_?” John asked, snatching up his blanket, “You and I seeing each other now doesn’t actually translate to you _seeing_ me tossing off!”

“I didn’t know you were masturbating, I thought you might be dying!” Sherlock snapped back.

“Oh gods,” John groaned, rubbing at his eyes, “Just… I get it. You’re traumatized-“

“I’m not _traumatized_ , I was just talking to the skull and it was telling me to chose between _boiling_ your skull and putting in flesh eating beetles so I could add it to the mantel! It was _very upsetting_!”

John was gaping at him. He looked a bit scared.

“I didn’t… I wasn’t going to… John, you know I’d never boil your skull. It’s both unsanitary, inefficient, and has negative social stigma attached to it.”

“Okay. So. Beetles, then?” John asked.

“Yes, of course beetles, but not for a _very long time_.”

“Right, how long exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock sighed, “Years? Hopefully decades. If I can find a way to preserve you in a tank or something you need not _ever_ die, but let’s be realistic here, you’d hate that.”

“Yeah, I would,” John nodded, “Glad we agree there.”

“Right.”

“Now, let’s go back to the skull talking to-“

Sherlock woke up in John’s bed.

“Damn!” He snapped, rubbing at his face, “I fell asleep _again?!_ ”

“Shhhh,” John soothed.

John was sitting on the side of the bed holding Sherlock’s wrist and staring at his wristwatch. When he finished taking his pulse he leaned down and petted his hair.

“Your pulse is elevated and you passed out a moment ago. Gave me a scare.”

“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock groaned, “I’m supposed to be taking care of _you_!”

“I’m basically better, Sherlock. It was a virus, you know? Nothing to do but wait for it to pass, and I’m over the danger area. I just need to relax for a few days while I fully recover.”

“And _I_ should be taking _care_ of you!” Sherlock whined.

“Hush. No more taking care of me for tonight. Just go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock replied, pushing upright, “I need to get some coffee.”

“Coffee?!” John snapped, “Sherlock it’s nearly midnight! Come lie down with me.”

“I will just… come downstairs with me while I get some coffee so I don’t fall asleep. I knew I should have bought some more energy drinks…”

“ _Energy_ drinks?! I knew it. You’re abusing those things! Sherlock, people have died!”

“YOU NEARLY DIED!” Sherlock raged, “You laid there and didn’t even respond when I shouted your name! You were _bleeding_ from your mouth and oozing from your eyes and you were barely breathing! I put ice to your mouth and you didn’t even swallow! They just pushed me out of the way and took you out the door and there was _nothing_ I could do! NOTHING! Nothing except sit there and watch you live or die!”

“Sherlock,” John stood up slowly, “You need to calm down.”

“I will,” Sherlock insisted, “I will, John. Just… let me lie with my head on your chest. If I can hear your heart I can relax. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure,” John nodded, sliding into the bed slowly as if expecting Sherlock to attack him.

Sherlock eagerly climbed in after him and pressed against his side. He laid his head on John’s shoulder and then shifted lower until he could hear his heart. John was stiff and anxious for a while, but then he slowly drifted off. Sherlock followed him into slumber.

 

 

**Night Four – pt 2**

 

John woke up with a soft groan, shifting as his still fever-sore muscles protested his continued parallel position. He needed to get up and walk for a bit. Maybe outside. Get some fresh air.

John pushed himself into a sitting position and screamed as the most terrifying sight met him that he’d ever-two-tours-in-Afghanistan-seen. Sherlock was sitting in a chair beside his bed, hands casually in his lap, staring at him, with dried bloodstains on his face.

His eyes were pinned open.

 

 

**Night Five**

 

John was shaking. He’d never reached a level of fear like this in his life. It wasn’t fear for himself, but for Sherlock Holmes who had apparently reached the edge of madness and skipped off of it with a dramatic ballerina leap.

He’d failed to convince Sherlock to go to the hospital. The man had screamed in terror that John wanted to go back there to die. Instead he’d examined the tiny wounds, dubbed them superficial despite their horrific nature, and made sure Sherlock continued to use the eye drops he’d been using all night long to keep his eyes from drying out while they were pinned open with safety pins. He’d at least sterilized the pins before using them to pin his eyelids to his eyebrows. The swelling was horrible and the blood was gruesome looking, but he’d survive if the holes closed well enough. John wrote him a prescription for antibiotics and sleeping pills, but he didn’t mention the last bit to Sherlock. Still, the man refused to leave to walk the short distance to the nearest chemist, insisting that John needed to rest and heal. Instead John suggested a hot bath. He meant for Sherlock, hoping to calm him down and get him to drift off at which point he could drain the tub and cover him with a blanket. _Anything_ to get him to sleep, but Sherlock thought _John_ wanted the bath and skipped off to draw it. John was pressed into the tub and took the opportunity to coax Sherlock into it as well. He sat behind John, pulling him against his chest. John was relieved. This would _work_. Sherlock would fall asleep like this in a heartbeat.

And he did. He slept for two hours straight until the water got cold. John tried to shift forward to pull the plug and fill up the tub with hot water again, but his motion sent Sherlock into REM rebound and he woke up thrashing and screaming in terror. John managed to calm him, but he began to sob brokenly, shaking as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I failed you. Oh gods, John, please don’t leave me. _Please_!”

“Easy, Sherlock, easy,” John soothed, “Come to bed and let me hold you. I’m here. I’m right here. Listen to my heart again.”

Sherlock sobbed as rocked on the toilet as John dried them both off and tugged him towards the bed. They toppled in together and John found his lips, thinking to sooth him with affection and lure him into a snuggle. Sherlock pulled away instantly.

“No! No this is how you made me sleep before!”

Sherlock’s hand lashed out and John toppled sideways on the bed staring at the far wall in shock as his face stung from the slap.

“Oh gods,” Sherlock gasped, “Oh, bloody _hell_! John, I’m sorry. I’m _so sorry_. Are you all right? Do you need to go to hospital again?”

John saw his shot and took it, “I could use some pain pills, but we’re out.”

“I’ll get you some.”

“Okay. It’s at the chemist.”

Sherlock froze, “Do you… do you think you’re up for walking to the corner?”

“Actually the air would do me good,” John replied eagerly.

They dressed and walked slowly to the chemist. Sherlock seemed much better for his short two hours of sleep, but he tired quickly and began to shake again. John managed to pick up both of Sherlock’s prescriptions and paid for them while Sherlock took a micronap in the chair. Micronap sounded good, but it really wasn’t. A micronap meant he had gone without sleep for so long that his body was no longer allowing it to be an option. Micronap meant he woke up screaming and convulsing in the chair and then stood up and swore off sitting ‘ever again’.

“Easy, Sherlock,” John soothed, “Let’s get you home.”

“I want a shower,” Sherlock complained, “People are staring at me because of the blood.”

“I washed the blood off of your face, love,” John soothed, “Remember?”

Sherlock grabbed him by his arms and spun them about before jerking John towards him and shaking him violently, “THE BLOOD IS ON MY HANDS!”

When John managed to _carefully_ extract himself from Sherlock’s painful grip he noticed people nearby on their mobiles staring at them. They were likely calling the police. John hoped they got through. He couldn’t call them himself; Sherlock had taken his mobile and smashed it, claiming it was threatening to harm John. Mrs. Hudson must have been out, as his fake-cheery shouts on the way out hadn’t garnered her attention. He was being held hostage by his… flatmate? Boyfriend? Partner?

They made their way home and John just barely caught him as Sherlock hit a micronap while walking. John leaned against a nearby wall while supporting his passed out flatmate and glanced around in the hopes of hailing a cop. No one looked their way; everyone was rushing past on their busy London day and his attempts to awkwardly wave and ask for help failed. He was regretting not asking the chemist to call an ambulance despite his original thought that a trip to hospital would make things more difficult for Sherlock. Then Sherlock jerked awake and told John they had to hurry home so they could each take their medicine.

John was careful when they got back to the flat. Sherlock was feeling weak and dizzy so he sat down and sipped at some coffee from the fridge that he’d made in bulk. He was drinking it black and _cold_. John swallowed his revulsion, pulled a bit of slight of hand, and dropped the sleeping pills on the table. He’d get the antibiotic into him later. He downed some paracetamol just for looks and then smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back at him. Like a crocodile.

“Looking for these?” Sherlock asked, holding up the bottle of sleeping pills.

“How did…”

“I can’t _believe_ you didn’t notice I switched them!” Sherlock chuckled, “Honestly! You’re a _doctor_!”

“You _switched_ them?!” John asked, grabbing the bottle and glancing at it. They were indeed the same pills he’d just ingested, too distracted over getting Sherlock to do the same to notice what he was putting in his own mouth!

John turned to get to the bedroom to throw up but Sherlock tackled him from behind. They wrestled on the floor, John torn between getting free and not harming his friend. He managed to turn himself over to find Sherlock staring down at him, his eyes were glazed and flitting around, and his hands moving without actual logic to pin him down, succeeding with sheer weight and capriciousness alone. He was, undoubtedly, asleep.

John stopped fighting, feeling even worse about defending himself against an asleep Sherlock than he did about fighting with a psychotic one. He went limp and Sherlock’s erratic movements continued for a moment and then shifted. They went from random strikes and shoves to caresses. John’s eyes widened as Sherlock let out a soft moan and his engorged cock rubbed against his thigh. Sherlock’s mouth moved sloppily over John’s cheek and ear, the friction giving rise to his own passions, but at a painful angle.

John tried to push Sherlock off, but his dream switched over and he was fighting John again, slamming his head into the ground until spots flashed behind his eyelids. Then he was rutting against him again, moaning his name as he chased his release. John stopped fighting and closed his eyes, letting pain and mottled pleasure wash over him. It wouldn’t do any good. The moment he went limp Sherlock’s hands went wild, touching him everywhere. He felt his trousers being tugged down, followed by his pants. At least his cock wasn’t shifted at an angle any more. Sherlock had been walking about in sleep clothes so they were easily shoved down while John simply lay still and accepted what was about to happen.

“John. My John. My love. Oh gods, I’ve been a fool. So long. So near. So warm.”

Sherlock’s hand worked between them, stroking their cocks in tandem while John tried to figure out if he was willing or not. It was like watching a movie rather than experiencing it himself; as if it were all happening to someone else. Someone in a porno that happened to look a lot like he and Sherlock. He was convinced if he opened his eyes and looked down he would see it was only his own hand moving over his shaft and that Sherlock’s prick was a figment of his imagination. Then it was spurting across his stomach, hot and _real_ and his emotional toll became agonizing. Sherlock slumped against him, leaving John teetering on the edge of climax.

“John… John… Please… Oh gods, I need to sleep. My head. It _hurts_.”

“Sleep,” John soothed, stroking his back gently, “Sleep, love.”

John waited until Sherlock was snoring- that took all of a few seconds- and then shifted a thigh up until he had room between them. He reached down and fisted his cock until he got his release.

Somehow it didn’t feel as good as he’d expected it would.

**Night Five – pt 2**

Sherlock jolted awake, his hear pounding as a terrible dream crashed through him. He shouted and struggled upright, staring down at John where he lay beneath him. He was asleep. In the hallway? Asleep or unconscious?

“John? John? Wake up! John, don’t do this to me! John, please!”

John groggily opened his eyes, looking dazed and confused, “Sh’l’ck?”

“John. Oh gods. Okay. Just relax. I’ll get you to the hospital. No. Wait. They’re all incompetent. I’ll take care of you.”

“You drugged me you ssssshit,” John croaked.

“Drugged…?” Sherlock’s eyes widened, “Oh gods, I did. Are you feeling ill?”

“No. Jus’ sleepy.”

“Okay. Let’s get you to bed.”

Sherlock tried to stand and toppled over, “Why do I feel like an eel out of water?”

“You haven’t slept in bloody days,” John groaned, pushing himself up and hearing his back crack loudly, “Judging by me still being… off… you still haven’t gotten in a solid eight hours. You need medic- AW FUCK!”

John collapsed back on the ground, his back sending pain shooting through him in all directions. Sherlock was babbling something and John found himself being carefully helped to his feet. He couldn’t straighten up. His back was clearly thrown out. Sherlock helped him into his own bedroom and carefully lowered him down onto the bed. Then he left the room. And returned with coffee.

 

 

**Night Six**

 

John was trying to communicate with Mrs. Hudson. She was downstairs. He hoped. He tried using the lamp on the bed stand to bang out SOS, but he broke the bulb and Sherlock took it away. Sherlock was back to micronaps. He’d fall over and convulse on the floor in the midst of violent dreams brought on by REM rebound then get up and stagger around. He kept John fed, but he was starting to puke up his own food more than he kept it down. That had one bonus of keeping him from consuming caffeine. Until John heard the rattle of pills in his pocket. He must have gotten Mrs. Hudson to buy him caffeine pills. How he’d kept her out of meddling was beyond John.

Then it finally happened. Sherlock crawled into bed, shaky and whimpering, and collapsed into unconsciousness. Not sleep this time. Unconsciousness. His heart was beating at a terrible rate and he was trembling and drooling all over himself. John rolled carefully onto his side and got slowly to his feet. He worked his way one excruciating step after another down the hall. He sobbed his way down the stairs. He grit his teeth and made it slowly into Mrs. Hudson’s flat without bothering to knock.

“John! Sherlock told me you were at hospital again and…”

“Ambulance,” John wheezed through the pain, “Call an ambulance.”

“Oh!” She cried, and rang up the hospital.

It took some explaining to get her to realize the ambulance _wasn’t_ for him. Mostly. Then he sat weakly down on her couch while she bolted upstairs to make sure Sherlock was still breathing. When the ambulance came a second followed and they took both of them to hospital. John spent an agonizing seven hours wondering what condition Sherlock was in while they shot his back full of cortisone shots and then released him to sit in the waiting room like a fool when he ought to be lying flat or seeing a chiropractor.

Greg came in and John told him parts of the horror he’d been through while the man stared in horror. He left out the… rape? John wasn’t even sure that rape was the right word. He’d had non-consensual sex with his sort-of-boyfriend and wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He now looked back on the times he’d had rape victims in front of him who sputtered about how they ‘weren’t sure’ it was rape because it was their friend and they ‘would have wanted it in another context’. At the time he’d said what he needed to say while silently condemning them as weak willed and hoped they grew a backbone. Now he was seeing it from another angle and it was _frustrating_ , because he knew there was no one he could talk to who wouldn’t judge him the way he’d judged others.

“So now what?” Greg asked, “Are you okay? Do you need a place to stay? Is _he_ okay?”

“Uh, let me think,” John laughed bitterly, “No. No. I don’t know.”

“Want me to ask?”

“Yeah, could you?” John asked. He was truly just too damn tired to move.

Greg stood up and flashed his badge and tried to throw his weight around. When that failed he sighed in disgust and called Mycroft who showed up with a look of horror on his face.

“He put the cameras on a loop! My monkeys didn’t see through it,” Mycroft stated as he passed by John, “It was so _obvious_.”

John giggled at how much he sounded like Sherlock and then waited patiently for a few minutes more before Mycroft swanned back out and handed a file to John. John opened it and sighed in relief. It was Sherlock’s file. He skimmed over it, glancing at what they were doing for his eyes (the same thing John had planned) and skipped over his symptoms before hitting his treatment.

“They’ve dosed him with sedatives and put him in a sleep study room with all the electrodes attached,” John sighed in relief, “He’s being fully monitored. Last look his heart rate was steady with only occasional blips due to REM sleep.”

“How long will he be asleep?” Mycroft asked him, “I need to schedule _killing him_ around a few meetings.”

“They’re keeping him under for nine hours so he’ll be awake soon. Then they’re going to keep him monitored while pumping him full of mood stabilizers. He’ll be weaned off of them in a week. He needs to take sleeping pills each night until his schedule is normal… what the hell is ‘normal’ in Sherlock?”

“About five hours a night,” Mycroft stated immediately.

“Right. Good to know,” John nodded, “So I’ll try to make him do that.”

“You couldn’t get him to sleep for more than an hour at a time for _six days_ ,” Mycroft scoffed, “Don’t think for a moment that you’ll be in charge of his care.”

With that statement Mycroft snatched the file back from John’s hand, pivoted on an Italian leather shoe, and clicked away with his back stiff as a rod.

“Prick,” Greg scoffed, then glanced at John, “You okay?”

“No,” John replied, sagging back in the chair and then wincing, “No I’m not. My head is so far passed fucked up that it’s ridiculous.”

“Something else you want to tell me?” Greg asked softly.

John closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Something about sperm on his abdomen from a secondary donor?” Greg tried softly.

John stiffened and then slouched with a shrug, “Read the file over my shoulder?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, “And I’ve been in this for a while. I’m not as stupid as Sherlock thinks. I _know_ that look. You sure you don’t want to stay at mine?”

“No,” John replied, “I just want him to be okay. I need to talk to him. He wasn’t even _awake_ , Greg.”

“That’s hard,” Greg nodded, “Still not your fault. Still don’t have to forgive him.”

“I’m not mad at him. I’ve been in love with him for fucking _ever_. I don’t know what I feel.”

“Do you think he knows what he did?”

“Doubt it. I guess I could ask.”

 

 

 

**Night Seven**

 

Sherlock was drowsy but conscious and capable of actual cognitive thought; enough to order Mycroft to let John see him, at least. The man walked in with a stiff back and a tired expression.

“John,” Sherlock croaked, his voice heavy, “John I am _so_ sorry. You’ve seen the absolute worst of me when I meant to show you the best.”

“I’ve seen the best of you already,” John replied, sitting down at his side and hesitantly taking his hand, “I just want you to get better now.”

“What about you? I remember you being injured…?”

“Threw out my back. Guess I’m officially an old man now. I’ll have to either accept it or buy a sports car.”

“Don’t be thick, you don’t drive,” Sherlock scoffed, “And you already have a leather jacket.”

“And a tattoo,” John snickered.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, “What? Where? Of what? Show me.”

John winced, “Ummm, actually I need to talk to you about something...”

“Gods, it’s not someone’s _name_ is it?”

John stared down at him silently for a moment, considering his options, and then plastered on a fake smile, “No, it’s an army thing. My unit’s number and a picture of a bulldog. We always thought our CO looked a bit like… well, it was sort of the mascot of our group so we all got them. Mine’s on my inner hip.”

“Intimate place for a tattoo from your regimen,” Sherlock frowned.

“Yeah, well. I was sleeping with the CO. You might as well know that. Not gay, you see, because I’m-“

“Bi,” Sherlock smirked.

“A bit, yeah.”

“Never fooled me for a moment.”

“I won’t remove it.”

“I won’t make you.”

“Good.”

“I’m far better looking than a pit bull.”

“Bull dog.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, you’re more of an otter, actually.”

“If you tattoo an otter to your body I will divorce you.”

“We’d have to marry first.”

“Yes, I’d love to marry you.”

“Clot. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“John Holmes-Watson.”

“John _Watson_ -Holmes.”

“If you insist,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Did you just Bugs Bunny me?”

Sherlock smiled slyly, “I’m wascally like that.”

“Oh gods. Go back to sleep. You’re still delirious if you think _that’s_ sexy.”

“Says the man with a bullpup on his hip.”

“Bull _dog_.”

“Whatever.”

“I love you, you arsehole.”

“Mm, I suppose… I should say that back,” Sherlock muttered.

“You don’t have to,” John replied, his chest aching.

“No, John,” Sherlock grabbed for his arm, “I do. I do love you. I’m just not good at this. Forgive me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, ruffled his curls, and left with his shoulders far more relaxed than when he’d come in. 


End file.
